“People stay in Selchow because it’s a quiet place,” says Lutz Ribbecke. A few seconds later, an EasyJet plane roars over the dark green hedges. Ribbecke is 65, bald, has a white beard and is wearing camouflage overalls. He sits in a wicker chair and lights a cigarette. Behind him is a pool, trees and a pond. “I built it all myself,” he says proudly. The lawn has been freshly mowed. It’s warm enough, even though it’s autumn, to sit outside without a jacket. His dog runs across the lawn, and Ribbecke strokes its head. “People know very well that they are squeezed in between the runways here,” he says. He lives in Selchow with his wife, but his son, now an adult, has moved away. “But otherwise, it’s quiet. No through roads, no teenagers outside. Everyone just has their own property. And a bit of kerosene smell and tyre dust.”
For Ribbecke, the airport has always been there. In 1934, Henschel Aircraft Works, a manufacturer linked to the National Socialist war industry, landed. By the end of the Second World War, 14,000 military aircraft had been built by the firm. When the Soviets arrived in 1945, Aeroflot began operations, flying directly to Moscow. Schönefeld became one of the most important airports in the DDR. At its peak, the East German airline Interflug flew to 53 destinations on four continents. Important people, such as Leonid Brezhnev and Fidel Castro, were welcomed there. After reunification, passenger numbers plummeted. Tegel and Tempelhof became competitors, and Schönefeld became a charter airport. In 1996, the federal and state governments decided to build a new airport: the future BER. But this led to protests from local residents and chaos related to the planning. It wasn’t until EasyJet started flying to Schönefeld in 2004 that the airport boomed again. By that time, BER was already well under construction. It was to become one of the longest-running construction projects in Germany.
“I grew up with aircraft noise,” says Ribbecke, who was born and raised in Selchow. Somewhere behind the hedge, the next plane takes off. “It was just normal. There used to be fewer planes, but they were louder.” Ribbecke worked in agriculture across Berlin’s city estates for 37 years. At 58, he changed careers and became a bus driver in Schönefeld. “My bones weren’t working so well anymore,” he says with a smile. Although he says he enjoys his work, the place has changed a lot. Selchow used to be lively. “There were two big pubs, two shops, a butcher, a tailor, a cobbler and a bakery. We had everything here in the village.” Today, there’s still an on-demand pub where six pensioners meet for their weekly Uno night.
“I grew up with aircraft noise. It was just normal. There used to be fewer planes, but they were louder.”
Ribbecke is now standing in his workshop. Tools are scattered on the table, and a wheelbarrow hangs in the back. “I don’t have any construction projects at the moment,” he says as he puts a drill bit back into its casing. In 1993, Ribbecke wrote in the Märkische Allgemeine newspaper that the expansion of the airport had condemned Selchow to extinction. More than 30 years later, his prophecy has come true. Only eight children still live in the village. “The young people are completely gone,” he says. “When the old people die, the village will die too.”
Ribbecke hardly notices the aeroplanes anymore. “Selchow’s residents ignore the aircraft noise. The planes take off here and bank around. Count to 10, then they’re gone.” The sounds from the planes also come in waves, not continuously, because BER still isn’t operating at full capacity. In his house, which is next to the workshop, he and his wife haven’t heard any noise for two years, thanks to soundproofing. “It’s dead quiet now,” says Ribbecke. But the road to get there was rocky. “Before BER was built, we were told at the Rotes Rathaus that Selchow was to be somewhere anyone could move to and get reasonable soundproofing.” In the end, he had to fight with the airport company for 14 years before his house was soundproofed, and he had to pay a third of the costs himself. Nevertheless, he has no negative feelings towards the airport. It’s the residents of the neighbouring villages who get on his nerves. “You always hear the people from Schulzendorf or Eichwald complaining: aeroplanes, aeroplanes, aeroplanes,” he says, laughing. “But look at how many new buildings have been built there since it opened!”
“The young people are completely gone. When the old people die, the village will die too.”
But not in Selchow. The village sits in the airport’s restricted zone, where new residential construction is banned. Back in 2011, the municipality decided to transform Selchow from a residential area into a commercial zone. “We could have been completely relocated before BER was built, like Diepensee was,” Ribbecke says. “But some residents refused, because they sensed a big business opportunity with BER and insisted on staying. Now those who wanted to leave are stuck here. That train has left the station.” Land prices have since collapsed. Ribbecke had his property valued by an independent appraiser, then the airport company did their own assessment. “The airport’s valuation came in at less than half of what the independent appraiser said it was worth.” BER’s strategy is clear: wait it out. “They’re betting we’ll all be dead before they have to pay fair prices,” says Ribbecke. “By the time redevelopment becomes lucrative for them, everyone here will be long in the grave.”
